


Camp Tales

by deathwailart



Series: Rhiannon Amell [3]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Families of Choice, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 19:00:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/852950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathwailart/pseuds/deathwailart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rhiannon finds it hard to cope after the situation at Kinloch Hold, Wynne comforts her as best she can</p>
            </blockquote>





	Camp Tales

If she looks at this logically, she should be happy; the tower is safe, First Enchanter Iriving is safe, the Templars aren't going to destroy the Circle, the demons are gone and she gained a new companion who, hopefully, understand some of her struggles a little bit better than other members of her party. Morrigan might have magic but Morrigan is (weird, loopy, Flemeth's daughter) well, she's Morrigan. But all that aside, they're all fine and happy, everyone catching up, Dog barking and wagging his stump of a tail at her and Alistair is being his stupid self (he's dumber than Dog in certain respects) and it's...nice. She is a Grey Warden with her companions and they're all managing to eat together apart from Morrigan but Wynne took some of Leliana's stew her way as they talk, Zevran already trying to charm a very uninterested Wynne.  
  
But she's not happy. There is an increasingly large lump in her throat that makes swallowing an almost impossible act, pushing her closer and closer to tears. She's seen death before, she's killed by now. She is a Grey Warden, not just a circle mage past her harrowing but to see her home, the only home she's known and can remember aside from vague sketchy images that could be cobbled together from all of her bunkmates sharing their own pasts before the circle, like that, corpses everywhere, demons and hurlocks and abominations roaming the halls? She feels like a child who wants to curl up and hide and cry, wants someone to stroke her hair and pat her back and reassure her.  
  
Instead she apologises to Leliana, says her goodnights to everyone and crawls into her tent.  
  
There are long ugly moments of her heart thumping, ringing in her ears and the Fade. All those forms and she is used to the Fade, she is a mage, the Fade is their place to work and to face challenges but all those strange forms. Mouse and spirit and burning man and golem and witnessing the nightmares of her friends. They haven't spoken of those either. Zevran's pain. Wynne's loss and supposed failure. Alistair's desire for family. How can she bring that up? She has no idea of her etiquette in a situation like this. Niall too, oh Niall. She didn't know him but how easily could that have been her? Would she have the strength to turn down the offer of a demon if she thought she was doing the right thing, if she was tricked or if her desires or rages or pride were catered to skillfully enough? Laughter drifts over to her and then Leliana's voice, singing, clear like bells and the lump stops her from breathing, making her gag and cough and then the tears come.  
  
She is used to having to cry in silence or how best to muffle any and all tears. They used to cry a lot in the Circle. Friends running away. Stories they were told. The remarks of Templars (oh _Cullen_ , she thinks, such a cliche). The injustice of how much they were hated by the outside world. That the circle tower would be their only home and later, once they could appreciate it, the fact that even here they weren't safe. They all lost friends to their Harrowings too. Watched them become tranquil. She could never touch the tranquil, imagining that they would feel like cold, slippery fish and she could never want that, she would rather be dead than serve so mindlessly, to be little more than a ghost. Typical, that people who hate and fear mages would come up with something like that and find use for them, unwilling to waste any tool. The coarse linen of the pillow covering scratches her face when she tries to move, her body shuddering, fingers gripping on for dear life as tears, saliva and snot make the fabric stick and her breathing hitches, becomes dangerously close to an audible sound for the first time in _years_ and that embarrasses her.  
  
The only thing making her stop is the awareness of someone outside her tent, hovering. Has she made enough noise? Shame flushes through her as she searches for something to wipe her face at the thought of who it might be. Morrigan wouldn't come - they get on well enough but Morrigan eats alone and it's Rhiannon who visits her, not the other way around. Alistair would come if he heard tears but he can barely talk to a girl and she doesn't want him to see her like this. If it were Dog, he'd barrel in, no questions asked. Sten would never come but she doesn't want him to know all the same, there is no need for him to wonder why he follows a mere slip of a girl, barely past her harrowing and barely a Warden and now the leader who is off to slay the archdemon, in time. Leliana she could stomach but she wouldn't understand fully and they're not friendly enough for her to be comfortable with that. All of Rhiannon's friends she had known from being very small, sticking to her initiate group as they grew and making new friends, non-mage friends? It's tricky. Actually it's almost daunting. Zevran might come to comfort her with his accent and smiles and that air that shimmers with promise but she would be mortified to have him see her like this. She flirts back because it makes her happy to flirt, makes her flush when they get back to what they're doing and a lot of times, it's been his face if she's been trying to get back to sleep from her nightmares but no. She wouldn't let him comfort her, he might end up reconsidering and feeling sorry for her.  
  
"Rhiannon?" Wynne. Why didn't she think of Wynne? "Rhiannon, dear?"  
  
"C-come in," she hates that she stutters, hiccuping as she hauls her knees to her chest, arms around them and head pressed down, stopping herself from moving with the last lingering sobs.  
  
"I'd ask if you're alright but we can both see that you aren't," the older woman says, offering a damp cloth that Rhiannon takes gratefully, wiping at a face that is hot, puffy and itchy.  
  
"It's...I mean I...Sorry," she settles for that once she can hand the cloth back, fanning at her face to help cool it down more. "I'm not a child, I shouldn't be upset over stupid things."  
  
"Nonsense." Wynne settles next to her and gives a gentle tug and Rhiannon remembers this too, the teachers that gave children the basic affection being brought to the circle should deny them and her head ends up on the woman's shoulder, fingers smoothing her hair.  
  
"I'm not a child, I'm a Grey Warden, how am I meant to go about fighting the Blight if I cry like a little girl who tripped and skinned her knee?"  
  
"You think you're the only one who cries at night? You were in The Fade, you saw the nightmares we were trapped in. How do you know you are the only one to lie here in your tent, crying into your pillow?" She doesn't have an answer for that, only turns her head to Wynne's cool skin and scrunches her eyes shut. "You almost lost a lot of things today; the Circle, the other mages. This is why we're fighting this Blight isn't it? To keep everyone safe? So long as your fears do not affect your duties to everyone who needs you, so long as you can still fight without hesitation when you must then you should never be ashamed of your tears."  
  
They lapse into silence after that, Wynne saying nothing beyond a tutting sigh when Zevran's voice reaches them, singing some baudy tavern song sung to the melody of a Chantry piece she can't remember the name of. Leliana and Alistair are probably blushing, both for different reasons and Dog barks along every now and again. She laughs, or tries to. It's a little puff of air and the twitch of her lips but it's enough and Wynne pulls away, manages to coax her into lying down on a pillow that's been flipped over to the clean and dry side, blankets pulled up and over.  
  
"Get some rest, we have a long day tomorrow."  
  
"Thank you," she calls out, just as Wynne opens the flap, letting cool night air in to flush out the last of the tent's stuffiness.  
  
"Any time my dear."


End file.
